


Involuntary Childminding

by Brinady



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Gen, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Reconciliation, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:29:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23213305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brinady/pseuds/Brinady
Summary: In which a long-awaited reunion takes an unexpected turn, mistakes are made and a reconciliation is attempted, and much-needed reassurance is followed by some friendly revenge.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 111





	1. Reunion...of sorts

**Author's Note:**

> This began as a snarky little reunion ficlet. After all, we all have high hopes for how Geralt and Jaskier will reunite and reconcile in season 2, right? Well I decided to take the cynical route. Instead of writing what I want to happen, I wrote what I predict will happen in the show. Something funny, fitting, but probably not entirely satisfying. I was going to leave it at that, when two more chapters just popped into existence out of nowhere, veering right back around to heartwarming. Oh well. You can have them too (I'll post them in the next couple days).
> 
> This takes place before and after an episode-to-be: the one based on the story "Grain of Truth" from "The Last Wish." As such, it will contain quite a few ***SPOILERS*** from that story.

It was late afternoon when the princess and her guardian walked into Murivel’s only tavern together. 

Ciri, for one, was deeply glad of the promise of an actual bed for the night, as they had spent the last several camping along the road. Not that camping was such a bad thing either. Geralt knew what he was about, and more importantly, he was _teaching_ her. There was never any nonsense from him about what activities were and weren’t suitable for a _girl_ , let alone a _princess_ \-- a fact for which she was continually grateful.

The tavern was warm and welcoming. The sound of jovial voices lifted in song were accompanied by the lilting chords of a well-played lute.

“Oh, I know this one!” Said Ciri of the song. “I heard it played in grandmother’s court!”

She turned to Geralt and realized that he was no longer by her side. Glancing back she saw him frozen in the doorway, looking quite as if something nasty had trod on his grave. 

She walked back over to him in time to hear him cursing softly under his breath.

“What’s the matter Geralt?” 

“Nothing…” he said with a shake of his head, “...it’s Jaskier.”

“What’s a Jaskier?” She asked, cocking her head to the side. 

“That.” He nodded toward the center of the tavern where a colorfully dressed man was strumming and dancing around theatrically to the general amusement of the crowd.

“That’s a bard.” She said flatly.

“Exactly.” 

The witcher appeared to arrive at a decision, and strode forward into the tavern walking right up behind the strutting bard.

The Jaskier’s next flourish ran him directly into Geralt’s broad chest and the bard backpedaled quickly, looking first annoyed and then properly horrified. 

“G-- _Geralt_? What in the name of…?”

“Jaskier,” the witcher interrupted calmly, “perfect timing. I need you to take Ciri for a while.”

“What? You…” the bard sputtered, “What’s a Ciri?”

“That.” The witcher pointed back at her.

“That’s a … _ooooooh_.” Jaskier’s eyes grew wide with understanding. He covered his gaping mouth with a hand. 

“That’s right.” Geralt said in that mean voice that, in Ciri’s limited experience, he usually reserved for people trying to cheat him. “I have a monster to kill at the manor east of here. It’s no place for a _child_. I know that doesn’t come as a _surprise_ to you.” He emphasized each word with a squeeze to the bard’s arm.

“Ah-- well…” the bard sputtered, looking stricken.

“Good.” Geralt clapped the man on the shoulder so hard he staggered. “I’ll be back tomorrow at the latest.”

He turned and made his way back to the princess, putting a far more gentle hand on her shoulder, “Ciri, stay here with the bard tonight. If he tries anything, you have my permission to kill him.”

He pointed once more toward ‘Jaskier’ giving him a peculiar glare that Ciri couldn’t translate, then stalked back out the door.

The princess and the bard stared across the tavern at one another in profound confusion.


	2. Reconciliation...attempted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which mistakes are made and reconciliation is attempted.

Around mid-morning the next day Geralt stormed back into the tavern in much the same manner he’d left…if a little the worse for wear.

He dropped the dismembered head he’d been carrying onto the bar and sat heavily on a stool. “Alderman!” He called, betting that either the town alderman was within earshot, or that the sight of the witcher’s trophy would send another denizen off to fetch him. “Beer.” He said to the barkeep, whose eyes were as round as a pair of silvers. 

“Sir!” the surprised barkeep leapt into action. 

Geralt adjusted his grip on his ribs and winced. Several were broken and had barely begun to heal, and the wound in his side had leaked a considerable amount of blood before he’d been able to take a potion for it. As far as injuries went, they were comparatively minor by his standards, but that didn’t stop them hurting like a son-of-a-whore. 

He made it through half a tankard of beer before the alderman finally appeared. “Sir Witcher!” The fat man exclaimed, “Well met! It seems your hunt was a success, yes?” He queried.

Geralt finished his swig. “Your ‘Fanger’ wasn’t a warg or were-beast after all, just an unfortunate land-owner under a curse. He’s entirely human now-- the curse has been lifted. Your real problem was this bruxa,” He slid the head along the bar toward the alderman who gulped audibly. 

“ _She_ was the thing picking off travelers and raiding your livestock. She will no longer be a problem.” He turned her the lifeless eyes toward the alderman and he somehow managed to grow several shades paler. 

“I’ll have my coin now.” He put down the tankard and extended an open palm.

“Of course!” The alderman sputtered, and pulled out a heavy purse. “With the thanks of all Murivel.” He said, and placed it in Geralt’s hand.

The witcher grunted, put the purse in his belt-pouch, and went back to his drink.

As the alderman was wrestling the bruxa head off the counter, the witcher heard a youthful voice coming from higher up nearby. “Geralt! You’re back!” 

Ciri came bounding down the stairs, followed closely by Jaskier, he was pleased to see. He hadn’t doubted the bard, but then again, neither could the greed of other humans be underestimated, and Ciri had already proven a tempting target for all manner of trouble.

“Geralt, you have to come see,” She said, striding over to his side, “Jaskier was teaching me the lute, I can already play the…”

She stopped mid-sentence. 

Geralt looked over and saw that she had been going in for a hug when she noticed the blood stains running down from his side, and his arm holding tightly to the wound. 

“Geralt,” Her voice was quiet, “...you’re hurt.”

“It’s alright, Ciri.” He put the tankard down again and placed a somewhat gory hand on her thin shoulder. “A bruxa got a swipe in at me. It looks worse than it is. I’ll be fine with some rest.”

“I understand.” Ciri said, almost mechanically, her face blank, “I should go… practice.” She strode calmly but swiftly toward the door.

Geralt turned to look after her and hissed when the movement pulled at his ribs.

“Jaskier.” He rasped. 

The bard had observed the exchange in uncharacteristic silence and bore a worried expression. He looked questioningly to Geralt.

“Can you look after her a bit longer?” He asked. “I need to rest a little, get this healed.” He indicated the wound. 

“I don’t think--”

“ _Please_.” Geralt said, clasping the bard on the arm.

Jaskier looked about to say something else, but just nodded, “Alright.”

“Thanks, Jaskier.” Geralt said. 

He saw a vague look of disbelief cross the bard’s face. 

“Where’s the room?” The witcher asked as an afterthought.

Jaskier raised an eyebrow but pointed and replied, “Second on the left.” And he made his way out the door after Ciri.

Geralt sighed, got unsteadily to his feet, and headed upstairs.

* * *

Geralt awoke to a knock on the door and the subsequent creak of it opening. Judging by the rays of sunlight, it had been at least an hour since he’d laid down on the bed ‘for just a minute.’ 

He shifted and winced. Those ribs would be sore for _weeks,_ he predicted with certainty borne of experience. 

“Geralt?” Came the bard’s voice. He was squinting into the room-- dark but for a few gaps in the shuttered windows. His eyes must have adjusted quickly because his query was immediately followed by, “ _Geralt_. You’re still a _mess_!” 

Geralt grimaced. 

It was true. He had intended to wrap up his ribs and bandage the wound, but as soon as he had touched the bed he’d felt his earlier plans slipping away in favor of sleep. 

“Hm,” He said, and made an ill-considered attempt to sit up. The effort elicited a groan that sent the bard rushing to his side. 

“ _Stubborn, heedless fool.”_ Jaskier muttered angrily, grasping Geralt by the shoulders to help him sit. “The truth, Geralt-- can _I_ handle this,” he pointed to the witcher’s chest, “or should I fetch a healer?” 

“There’s no need. I can--”

“Whether or not you _can_ do something about it seems to be of little consequence, as all evidence would indicate you have _no intention_ of doing anything at all.” There was anger and hurt in the bard’s voice-- even Geralt didn’t have to guess as it’s cause.

“Jaskier, I’m _sorry_.” He gripped the bard by the wrist to stop him moving away. “What I said to you on the mountain-- it was cruel, it was thoughtless...it was _wrong_. I was angry at Yen and at all of f#&*ing _destiny_ and I took it out on you. I _am_ sorry.” He looked directly into the bard’s surprised eyes as he let go of his wrist. “Is that what you needed to hear?”

“No…” Jaskier said, his voice conflicted, “I mean, _yes. Gods yes_. More than you could possibly know, but-- I came up here to talk about Ciri.”

Geralt sat bolt upright, despite the pain the quick movement sent searing through his body. “What about Ciri? _What happened_?!” He made to stand but the bard restrained him.

“No, _she’s fine_. Nothing happened!” Jaskier exclaimed, trying to placate, “She’s right outside,” He peeked through a gap in the window slats, “right down there, right now, practicing murdering trees with a long stick-- a task I can only assume you set her to. Trust you to start turning your daughter-- are we calling her that? Your ‘child’, anyway-- into a _warrior_ within a few weeks of _meeting_ her for the first time.”

“What about her, then?” Geralt growled threateningly.

“Ha, you’re a touch overprotective for someone who spent fourteen years wanting nothing to do with her!”

“ _Jaskier_ …” The witcher growled deeper.

“Alright, alright. It was her grandmother.”

Geralt cocked his head, frowning. He didn’t follow.

“I assume you know she died in the sacking of Cintra.”

“Hm.” Geralt affirmed. Jaskier did not need to know that he had found the body himself.

“Well, I went and asked Ciri what was wrong, and she told me that before her death, Calanthe came back wounded from battle. Wounded in the side...bleeding badly…”

“Oh…” Understanding dawned on Geralt.

“Yeah…” Jaskier agreed, “It shocked her pretty badly to see you injured in the same way. You’re her only guardian, her only family. She probably thought you were invincible-- an easy assumption to make; I’ve fallen to it before-- and the last invincible person she loved looked a lot like that very shortly before she _died_ , leaving the child to fend for herself in a very cruel world.”

Geralt looked at the floor and closed his eyes in a pained frown. “ _F$ &%.._.” 

“Uh huh…” Jaskier grimaced. “You should talk to her. Help her understand this part of who you are and what you do. Make sure she knows you’re not going to leave her.” There was a touch of bitterness in the bard’s voice at that last.

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “I did apologize…” He ventured.

Jaskier shrugged, “You did.”

“I’ll talk to Ciri.” He sighed, again making as if to rise. 

“Not like _this_.” Jaskier intoned, meaningfully. He pointed an open hand at Geralt's still blood-stained armor and clothes. 

Geralt looked down at himself. “Right. Not like this.” He agreed.

“So I’ll ask again,” Jaskier said, voice somewhat exasperated. “Can I do something?” He pointed to Geralt’s wounds, “Or should I fetch a healer?”

“I can handle it…” Geralt said, and then looked back up at Jaskier. “...with your help?”


	3. Reassurance and revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which much-needed reassurance is followed by some friendly revenge.

Geralt walked around the back of the tavern to where Ciri was practicing.

He could breathe easier with his ribs properly bound, and he wore a fresh shirt that the bard had rather thoughtfully brought along with him. Jaskier had even helped him get most of the blood and dirt off of his face and hair. _‘The less terrifying, the better.’_ The bard had insisted. He probably had a point.

“Ciri.” He said, walking up from the side.

She was practicing sequences of strikes against a poplar trunk that was about the width of a human. Her form was good, but she was using far too much force. She appeared not to hear him, though he didn’t think he had spoken softly. 

“Ciri?” He asked again.

She kept swinging at the tree, apparently totally absorbed in her routine. 

Geralt stepped in and extended a hand, catching the wooden ‘sword’ on the final downswing of her set. The stick impacted his palm with a loud ‘thwack’ and Ciri jumped slightly. 

Geralt didn’t flinch.

“If you overexert yourself with each swing you’ll tire quickly.” He advised, releasing the training weapon back to her. “Control is as important as power. More so, in your case.”

“Yes Geralt,” she said, lowering the stick. She kept her head down, but he saw her examining him out of the corner of her eye. 

“I frightened you, earlier.” He said in a low voice.

Her head shot up. “I wasn’t _frightened_. I just…” her lips drew into a thin line and she frowned, trying to express what she meant. “I just wasn't...expecting...to see you like that.”

“You thought witchers don’t bleed?” He asked. His tone was sympathetic, not derisive, but she still took offense. 

“Of course not! I’m not a child…” It would have been amusing, coming from someone who so obviously _was_ , if not for the hurt in her eyes. 

“It’s alright,” Geralt said, “I was shocked when I saw my master, Vesemir, wounded for the first time. I thought the old man was made of stone.”

“Your master?”

“Hm.” Geralt, “You think I’m a grim old wolf-- wait til you meet him.”

“Will I?” 

Geralt paused, considering. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I hope so. In any case, I had to learn, as you do, that witchers are not invulnerable. We are tough to wound, and even harder to kill, but many of the things we fight are every bit as tough.”

Ciri nodded solemnly.

“The monster I killed this morning was called a bruxa. It’s a type of higher vampyr- one that can move freely in daylight. She attacks with sound, creating a force like a powerful wind that can throw things around. She threw me into a wall, which broke these ribs here.” He took her hand and placed it against his ribcage so she could feel the difference in the injured area.

“Geralt!” she recoiled, frowning indignantly at him, but he didn’t relinquish her hand.

“No,” he said patiently, “you need to learn these things -- for my sake as much as for yours.”

She kept the frown but didn’t voice further objection. 

“The bruxa also has fangs and claws that can pierce most armor.” He continued, “She is _very_ fast. She got under my guard and hit me with the claws here.” He moved her hand down to the wound just above his hip before releasing it. 

“She is vulnerable to silver, like most monsters. And this one was vulnerable to distraction.”

“How did you distract her?” Ciri asked, unable to contain her curiosity, he was pleased to see.

“I didn’t. Her lover did.”

“Her _lover_?” Ciri’s face wrinkled in disgust. “Another vampyr?”

“A human under a curse, actually.” Geralt corrected.

“Like...my father’s curse?” Ciri hazarded.

Geralt thought about that, “Similar,” he admitted, “But not the same.”

Ciri looked down again, melancholy thoughts seemed to descend back on her in a rush. “I wish I had known him. Grandmother and Eist talked of him very little.”

“I didn’t know him,” Geralt said, “But I met him once.” He looked down at Ciri and could tell she wanted more. “He acted with honor, and he loved your mother very much.” 

Ciri nodded, still looking down, “But all their love couldn’t stop them dying.” She said softly. “It seems like all my life, everybody around me dies…”

“Ciri…” Geralt said, putting a hand on her arm.

“And Grandmother-- she was the strongest person I ever knew…” she said, tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. “But she wasn’t strong enough either. She left me…”

“Come here,” He said gruffly, and put his other arm around her shoulders, pulling her against his chest. He was surprised at how quickly her warm tears soaked into his shirt. 

“When I saw you…” she continued, sniffling slightly, “Covered in blood...I thought...I thought.”

He hugged her a little tighter. “I know what you thought.” He said softly. “I’m sorry I didn’t see it.”

He put a hand to the back of her head and tilted her face up so she had to look at him.  
  
“Remember what I told you when we first met?”

“People linked by destiny...will always find each other?” She asked.

“It's a promise.” He said firmly, realizing to his own surprise that he meant it wholeheartedly, “No matter what happens, I’ll always come back to you. I’ll never leave you. Not like that. Not ever.”

He saw her eyes fill up with tears and she buried her face in his chest, this time hugging him with all of her small might. 

Ignoring the pain, he held her tight and hugged her back.   
  


* * *

In their room above in the tavern Jaskier had been periodically peering out the window slats to check up on the witcher and his daughter.

At first it had been to confirm that Geralt actually _did_ go have a talk with the dear child, and then it was to make sure that the cantankerous, emotionally stunted witcher didn’t go and f$*% things up beyond repair.

Eventually he saw them share a long and heartfelt embrace, and the bard sat back on the bed with a contented sigh. 

He would forgive Geralt his wrongs eventually, he was sure. He’d always known the witcher insisted on not needing anyone, or being needed. He knew the man doggedly, adamantly resisted _change_ , to say nothing of _destiny_. 

But there he was, standing in a wood, _hugging_ his destiny like he would never let her go. 

It was a thing of beauty, and one that somehow Jaskier knew he would give anything to protect. 

The door burst open and Ciri came in, leading Geralt by the hand.

“...and your friend Jaskier--.” She was saying, “Did you know he’s played in _every one_ of the northern capitals?!”

“He’s not…” Geralt started to reply automatically, and he paused as the bard caught his eye with a level stare. 

_That’s right._ “ _Not my friend.” Go on, say it._ Jaskier’s eyes gave the unspoken challenge. 

“... as famous as he thinks he is.” Geralt finished, and held the bard’s gaze for an extra second. 

Jaskier grinned, “Oh I’ll have you know I’m every bit as famous as I think I am. You know what they say-- self-confidence is the better part of renown!”

“Jaskier!” Ciri hopped onto the bed, barely containing a fit of laughter, “ _Nobody_ says that.” 

“Don’t listen to him.” Geralt growled with half a smile, sitting gingerly in a chair, “His talent for stirring up trouble far exceeds his talent for singing.”

“Oi!” Jaskier exclaimed.

Geralt ignored him, “Go on,” he told Ciri gruffly, “Show us what you learned to play.” He gestured toward the lute hanging on a peg by the door. 

She jumped up and went to retrieve it but paused, looking to Jaskier. “May I?” she asked.

He nodded sagely, gratified by her show of respect.

She took a moment to get a proper grip on the lute’s neck and position her fingers on the strings, and then she launched into the first stanza of-- “The Fishmonger’s Daughter.”

Jaskier saw Geralt’s eyes widen in dismay. _This one?!_ The witcher mouthed when Ciri wasn’t looking. 

The bard gave an expansive shrug. _What?_ He mouthed back.

The witcher scowled and his right hand formed into a fist. _JASKIER!_ Even completely inaudible, it was a fiercely threatening snarl. 

Jaskier just sat back--

\--winked--

\--and _grinned_. 


End file.
